


although this voice withers away, the melody won't disappear

by Anonymous



Series: a feeling's not a thing you own [17]
Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Depression, Gen, Suicide, not-suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-15
Updated: 2020-01-15
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:53:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22271371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Patton is dead.As for Roman? He's-
Relationships: Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders & Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders, Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders & Thomas Sanders
Series: a feeling's not a thing you own [17]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1453462
Comments: 16
Kudos: 31
Collections: anonymous





	although this voice withers away, the melody won't disappear

**Author's Note:**

> *heelies in w/ a dab* (i cannot heelie) hi guys i don't understand time so i had to cancel doing agility with my beloved dog who loves doing agility and i love leaving the house and making her happy and she loves making m happy by doing good tricks and being smart and when i fail my dog i get Low Self-Esteem
> 
> anyway here are today's content warnings: not always being 100% honest with your therapist. discussion of food and eating disorders. ninjago spoilers. quite a lot of discussion about suicide. a small bit of remus gore, but he's being really well-behaved, and it's kind of weird. author-typical semi-romantic tension between the sides and thomas
> 
> and, um
> 
> i know it says i haven't chosen archive warnings, but. you know what's going to happen to roman, don't you?

“Remember, I’m going to be on vacation next week, so I won’t be available at our usual time,” says Dr. Faber.

Thomas nods. “That’s completely understandable.”

The doctor smiles, and continues, “However, due to your gradual improvement, I have been considering making our appointments once every two weeks, instead of once per week.”

“That sounds good,” grins Thomas. “I have been feeling a lot better.”

He doesn’t say that he’s already a lot better than most of the people who need Dr. Faber’s time and expertise. If he does, Dr. Faber will start treating him as if his self-worth is so low that he’s in danger from himself.

“But, still, if you feel any self-destructive suicidal urges when I’m away, you must call the hospital,” says Dr. Faber. His eyes are serious.

“I will,” Thomas says. “And, well, if I don’t, Logan probably will.”

They both exchange the usual awkward goodbyes between a therapist and patient. After that, Thomas heads to his car, and begins his drive home.

“He thinks you’re improving,” says Virgil. “That’s good.”

Thomas hums with agreement, checking his wing mirror before reversing out of his parking space. So far, so good. No traffic accidents yet.

“He _‘thinks’_ we’re improving?” Logan asks, raising an eyebrow at Virgil. “If he only ‘thinks’ so, and it is a belief not founded in fact, then I don’t believe our doctor is as good as I thought.”

“It’s fine,” Thomas sighs. “Seriously, I’m doing pretty alright. The twins have calmed down, and Ethan’s doing a pretty good job of self-preservation. Plus, you two? You’re so good at remembering meds and schedules, Logan; and, Virgil, you’ve been… Helpful.”

In the rear-view mirror, Thomas sees Virgil’s lips flatten into a thin, pale line.

“Seriously, Virgil, I love you so much,” says Thomas, and it doesn’t feel like too much of a lie. “You look after me. It’s your job. I seriously appreciate that, even though you can be a bit…”

“Extra?” Virgil’s mouth twitches into a slight smirk.

“Stressed,” Thomas shrugs in return.

“Stressed,” Hope announces, rising up with a cartoonish _boing_ , “is desserts, but backwards. I think that means that we should eat a cupcake in celebration!”

Thomas shakes his head, hoping that his smile looks indulgent, rather than nauseous. “That’s a good idea, Hope, but Logan and I have already figured out what we’re eating today.”

“And the next week,” Logan adds. “We’ve got a whole meal plan.”

“You mean, like, the bread?” asks Virgil.

Logan blinks. “What? No. Bread isn’t a food that Thomas is comfortable having in the apartment, so we’re going to reintroduce it slowly, at a later date.”

Virgil nods. “So, we’re having more pasta?”

Pushing up his glasses, Logan asks, “What do you mean? I didn’t say anything about pasta. I don’t even know why you started talking about bread.”

“You brought up carbohydrates!”

“I miss bread. I liked squishing it between my fingers until it was a little blob. Then, you bite into it!”

“I mentioned food as a vague concept, because Hope was talking about cupcakes. If anyone brought up carbohydrates, it was him.”

Thomas doesn’t even bother putting the radio on, now, because his Sides keep doing _this_ , and it’s already hard to try and distinguish between the different voices without a radio host intermittently talking in between songs.

“You were talking about wholemeal; I’m just following what you said!”

“A whole meal plan, Virgil.”

“Yeah, that’s exactly what you keep saying! A wholemeal pla- Oh, you meant… You meant it as two different words. Like, an entire meal plan. A whole plan, for meals.”

“I want pasta!”

Hope pauses for a moment, in the silent car, before he inhales with a loud gasp.

He whispers, with all of the importance of God’s holy Name, “ _Cupcake pasta_.”

Virgil heaves, just as Thomas’s stomach lurches, and he swallows back the dryness in his throat.

“That… That does not sound nutritious.” Logan shakes his head. “I can’t even begin to imagine how that would _work_.”

“Let alone the calories,” Virgil adds, croaking a little.

Thomas gets the car moving again when the lights turn green. “Would it be pasta made out of cake, though? Pasta served in a cupcake cup?”

“Cupcake ravioli,” says Hope, “like, all the crumbs and icing are smooshed inside. Or, like, spaghetti, with a bunch of icing and sprinkles instead of sauce!”

“I can feel my clothes getting tighter,” Virgil groans.

“Hope, _stop_ ,” another voice snaps. “You’re making Virgil uncomfortable.”

Hope doesn’t speak again.

“Hi, Ethan,” says Thomas, as he pulls into his driveway. “How are you?”

“Just as fine as you are,” Ethan replies, checking the fingernails of his bare hands. “Remus has been well-behaved, if rather morose.”

“Why morose?” he asks.

As the three sides and one Centre leave the car and enter the house, Ethan shrugs. “Because he, too, is just as fine as you are.”

“We got a case of the morbs!” Remus sings from the couch. His hand is on Roman’s shoulder, while Roman’s hand has settled around Remus’s side.

Thomas slumps on the sofa next to them. “Is this helping?”

He gestures at the screen, which is playing some children’s cartoon about Lego ninja that Thomas is kind of ashamed to know is called Ninjago.

“None of the good guys actually die permanently,” Roman tells him, in a voice like crumpled paper. “It’s pretty nice.”

“Ninja-” Hope jumps off the bottom stair, spinning faster than Thomas would be able to. “ _Go_!”

Remus howls with laughter as Hope falls flat on his face, almost drowning out the sound of Roman’s chuckle.

“You have no prior commitments for the rest of the day, and I must confess that I am quite tired,” Logan announces. “Thomas, I will return at five-thirty in order for us to begin preparing dinner. You may do what you wish, until then.”

He leaves.

“What can Ninjago teach us?” Thomas asks, sinking back into the sofa as Ethan and Virgil join him.

“Eat odd crustaceans!” Remus grins.

“Your friend, who has all of the symptoms of autism, is not autistic.” Ethan smiles, with a little, wicked look in his eye. “He’s actually a robot ninja with a pet robot bird.”

“Robots can only fuck other robots!”

“The leader of the team should always be the youngest, who got aged up by magic tea,” says Virgil.

Roman says, “Also, you’re not important, unless you’re a ninja. Like, come on. Did Nya _need_ to be a ninja?”

Thomas smiles, shaking his head. “You know, I don’t remember ever watching this show.”

* * *

Remus has been getting better at sleeping.

He puts his head on the pillow, and he conks out, right next to Roman. Roman, too has gotten better at sleeping.

Neither of them wonder aloud, or in silent distress, feeding strange, nonsensical stories into Thomas’s head. Well, they do, sometimes, but it’s ignorable. They’re fleeting ideas that don’t fit together, and that are forgotten upon Thomas’s waking.

It’s actually weird, to sleep and wake up? God, Remus hasn’t done that before, and waking up, feeling refreshed and healthy, seemed like a myth that Logan would tell Patton in order to maintain complete control over Thomas’s existence.

Like, _“Oh, if you sleep well and wake up in the morning, it actually feels nicer than scrolling through your phone all night and waking up at midday!”_

That sounds fake, but it’s actually _real_ , and that’s just so fucking weird. And that’s what makes it weird when Roman straight-up tells Remus that thing when it’s time to sleep.

“I’m going to dream with Thomas tonight,” he says.

His voice is no longer loud and strong, like he’s permanently projecting his voice from a stage – but _all the world’s a stage_ , right? That’s the saying, right?

His voice is weak, now, like Remus’s is after several days of being fucked in the face, but Roman didn’t get pleasure with the pain. He’s not having fun, sucking dick, or anything. Instead, Roman’s just wilting away, like narcissus flowers, in that garden where the sun doesn’t shine and the rain doesn’t pour, but it’s not an asshole. It’s an actual garden, this time. As much as the garden can be actual, since it’s just the product of Creativity, falling together and apart and together.

It’s all in Thomas’s head, Remus means. He’s not up for philosophy, tonight, since Ethan isn’t here.

Remus turns his head to look at Roman’s face. He’s disproportionately hollow-faced on their body. It was more obvious when they were all hanging out together, and everyone else’s cheeks were just as fat as Remus’s own, while Roman’s cheekbones are visibly protruding.

His face is lined, too, but not like wrinkles. It’s his veins and arteries and all that, webbing across his face and his neck, and visible through his tissue-thin skin. Remus wants to touch his brother’s face, and press their heads together in something more like a hug than just wrapping their arms around their shared body.

Would Roman’s skin split, if Remus’s finger pressed in wrong? Would he peel away like wet paper over a plastic skull? He doesn’t want to know.

“You’re dreaming with Thomas tonight?” Remus repeats.

“I am,” says Roman.

“Why?”

He feels Roman’s shoulder move in a shrug, nudging against the pillow, rustling their bedsheets. “Why not?”

 _“Because you’re weak,”_ Remus could say. _“Because I’m worried about you, and I’d feel better if you were asleep, next to me. Even though you’ll still be next to me, just awake.”_

“Just wondering,” he says, instead.

Roman tilts his head to the left, to look at Remus, and his face is no longer in shadowed profile. His brown eyes crinkle in a small smile.

“It’s okay,” Roman says, and Remus believes him. “It’ll be okay. You just go to sleep.”

So, Remus places his hand on Roman’s shoulder, and squeezes his fingers in some kind of weird massage of affection. In return, Roman places his arm across their torso, and squeezes like he’s giving someone a one-armed hug, but that person is his own body, which he shares with his brother.

Remus closes his eyes, and waits for sleep to take him. He counts sheep – fluffy, cute things, and nothing awful or horrific happens to them. They just jump over a little stile, into their sheep house, where they do knitting and stuff. A farmer, who obviously looks like Thomas, counts them all one by one.

It’s cute. It’s calming. Remus probably isn’t going to eat lamb chops or mutton for a while.

It’s like a dream that Roman would make.

“Bro?” he mumbles into the darkness, squeezing his right shoulder.

“Yeah, Remus?”

He breathes out a little sigh of an emotion he’s too tired to identify. “Love you, Roman.”

As he drifts into sleep, he could swear he hears a response.

“I love you too, Remus.”

* * *

In the whiteness, Thomas _exists_.

He’s standing, he decides. He’s standing upright, because he’s not sure if there’s anything except for himself, and the sensation of standing on his own two feet. Then again, even the feeling of that is blurry, as if it’s not quite real. As if it’s-

“A dream,” Thomas murmurs.

“Yeah,” says Roman.

Of course it’s Roman. Roman, in his white jacket and red sash, standing there, just like Thomas was before he turned around.

He looks just as he used to, in their videos from only a year ago. Less than a year, to be honest. His smile is weak. Crooked.

Apologetic.

Thomas remembers pushing himself forwards, he thinks, because he finds himself in Roman’s steady arms. They wrap around him, warm and steady and tight in a way that Thomas doesn’t think he’s been held in months. It’s always soft pats on the back, and brief squeezes, like he’ll dissipate into mist if he’s not handled like an antique bauble.

Roman holds him like he’s a person. A real, solid person, who has lived for more than thirty years and hasn’t died yet, despite everything.

“ _You_ ,” Thomas forces himself to say. His face is pressed against Roman’s silky, scarlet sash. It feels real.

Roman’s grip loosens for a second. In response, Thomas squeezes even harder, like Roman’s the only flotation device in the ocean, and Thomas’s ship has sunken to the depths.

The hug continues.

“I missed you,” Thomas says.

Roman’s firm hand cards through Thomas’s hair, tugging gently at the knots until they loosen. His chest rumbles with a hum. “I know.”

“It doesn’t make sense, though.”

This time, Roman’s chest moves with laughter, and he says, “It’s not your feelings’ job to make sense! You just-”

Thomas freezes, and Roman stills. The embrace falls apart, and one of them steps back.

“You just feel them,” he finishes.

In the whiteness, Thomas _exists_.

“I’m sorry,” Roman says. He looks more familiar, now, in his jeans and his hospital gown. He’s a mirror image of Thomas, rather than a vision of the past, but he still clutches at his sash.

Thomas feels his head shake a little bit. “Why?”

Roman’s teeth are bared in a bewildered smile. “ _Why_?”

“Why are you sorry?” asks Thomas. “What do you have to be sorry for?”

With one hand, Roman tugs at his hair. His other hand’s knuckles turn as white as bone as his sash wrinkles in his grasp. “Thomas, I’ve been _awful_ to you. I can’t even count everything I’ve done. I was cruel, because I felt like I wasn’t fulfilling my function, and I took it out on you.”

“You’re a part of me,” Thomas smiles. “I was angry at myself because my depression had made being creative difficult. You’re not to blame for that.”

“I tried to kill Remus!”

Thomas still smiles, and he just shrugs. “You’re brothers. I’m pretty sure that’s what you do. And, anyway, Remus gave better than he got.”

Roman shakes his head. “I tormented you! I did nothing but hurt and insult you, even as you were trying to get better!”

Thomas shrugs again.

“I’m the _bad twin_!”

Another shrug. “I’m not sure if it’s just because… Because the embodiment of my sense of morality is gone, but… Well, I’m not too sure there’s actually any such _thing_ as a real good or bad person. You’re you, and Remus is Remus, and you’re both a part of me.”

“I wanted to die, Thomas! I wanted you to die, and I hurt you, until you came with me and tried to kill yourself,” cries Roman. “Thomas, I wanted you _dead_!”

His hands fly out in a wild gesture, and Thomas catches them. Their fingers intertwine, and Thomas gives Roman’s hands a gentle squeeze. Roman squeezes back, softly and briefly, like it’s a reflex.

“Roman,” says Thomas.

He pauses, so he can swallow down the empty lump in his throat, and so he can try and blink away the blurriness of his eyes.

“Roman,” he says, “I wanted to die. You did it because I wanted you to.”

“I was supposed to be your hopes and dreams,” sobs Roman. “I wanted to be the best, for you, and then I wasn’t, so I… Thomas, I don’t know who I _am_ , anymore!”

“You’re _Roman_ ,” Thomas replies. “You’re… You’re _mine_.”

He doesn’t know how long he holds Roman for. Time doesn’t pass properly in dreams. All he knows is that Roman’s tangled head of hair is tucked under his chin, and _he’s_ the one holding Roman, this time.

He’d forgotten that he could give comfort like this.

When Roman finally pulls away, the front of Thomas’s shirt is dry, but Roman’s eyes are pink and puffy.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I only meant to apologise, and explain. I didn’t mean to make it into Roman’s Pity Party. Guest of Honour, Thomas Sanders.”

He adjusts the ruffled collar of his grey poet shirt, and pulls his sash up so it covers the pink scar on his chest.

“I accept your apology, even though I think it wasn’t necessary,” Thomas replies. “Roman, you’ve _always_ been forgiven.”

Roman sniffs, still with that bashful smile on his face. “Well, then, I guess it’s time for the explanation.”

The muscles at the centre of Thomas’s forehead tighten as his brows furrow. “Roman, I’m pretty certain I know why you did what you did. You’re a part of me, after all.”

Roman’s shaking his head. He blinks, and a tear rolls freely down his cheek.

“It’s not that,” he says. “It’s not what happened, but what _will_ happen.”

In the whiteness, Thomas _refuses_.

“I don’t understand,” he tells Roman; he tells _himself_.

Roman believes him. He knows he does.

“Thomas, I’m sorry. But I’m just… I’m not your Creativity anymore. I’m not your hopes, or your dreams. And-” He cracks a grin. “-Logan has enough of an ego for all of us, I think.”

Thomas shakes his head, so his brain rattles in his skull, and his hair falls into his eyes, and all he can hear is the swishing of blood in his ears. “I _don’t understand_.”

“I’m not needed anymore. I’m only hurting you, now. I’ve been hurting you for a long time, and _that_ became my purpose, Thomas, but you shouldn’t be hurting. I don’t _want_ you to hurt. Thomas, _please_ ,” Roman begs. “Please listen to me. Please understand.”

One hand squeezes Thomas’s right shoulder. The other reaches down to clasp his left hand.

Thomas cups Roman’s cheek, and tells the truth.

“I don’t want to lose you.”

Roman bites his bottom lip, forcing his smile to stay on his lips, even while saltwater tears smear under the caresses of Thomas’s thumb.

“I don’t want you to lose me, either.” He swallows, and says, “But it’s not my choice.”

“ _Stay_. Stay with me, Roman,” says Thomas. The words fall from his mouth with the force of waves that crash on pebble beaches. “I’m the Centre. I’m the boss. You can’t… I won’t _let_ you leave!”

Roman brings their joined hands to his mouth, and brushes a kiss against Thomas’s fingers. He looks up, and even more tears fall from his eyes.

“Thomas, you can’t stop yourself from changing,” he explains. “This was always going to happen, eventually, no matter what any of us did. You changed. _I_ changed. I can’t go back to who I was, and I can’t continue as who I became.

“ _Why_?”

“ _Because that’s life_!”

The words seem to echo dully in the void of Thomas’s dreams. Neither Roman nor Thomas draws away from the other. They just momentarily break their eye contact.

“I can’t change this, Thomas.” Roman’s voice is rough. Weak. Broken. “I wish I could. I’m sorry.”

Thomas opens his mouth to say something, but he doesn’t.

Every wrong done by Roman has always, already, been forgiven.

His chest rumbles as he begins to sing, in that low bass that he used to be so proud of.

“ _A dream is a wish your heart makes, when you’re fast asleep_ …”

They waltz in that way that Thomas learnt, once, and that Roman remembers, even now. When Thomas reaches out to embrace Roman, though, and hold him in his arms, once again, so they can be warm and safe and protected and _loved_ -

Roman dissipates into mist.

* * *

When Thomas wakes up, his pillowcase is wet, and tears are still streaming down his cheeks.

* * *

When Remus wakes up, he is alone.


End file.
